


Control

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [36]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June, 1946: After the war, Jersey replants her garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**12th June, 1946; Saint Helier, Jersey**

  
  
Most of Jersey's once stunning garden is given over to plants more practical than those she lovingly cultivated before the war. The corner in which an effervescent buddleia once sprouted is now shadowed by the broad leaves of a crop of Jersey Royals; a tangle of strawberry plants have spread themselves across a bed in which bright Delphiniums used to nod their heads; and the white wooden struts framing the front door now support the snaking stems of runner beans instead of red roses.  
  
There is a bare patch of earth by the back wall, however, no bigger than the span of Ireland's outstretched arms.  
  
"I can't bring myself to pull everything up," Jersey says, digging her hands into the rich soil, trowel discarded on the floor behind her. The work was easier without tools sometimes, she'd explained earlier when Ireland had questioned her about it, with a direct connection between her skin and her land. "It feels like it's still too soon. I keep thinking…"  
  
Her lips purse together, and she swipes almost angrily at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead, leaving behind a smear of dirt. Her thin blouse is damp, too, clinging to the narrow lines of her back and the knife-edge sweep of her shoulder blades, despite the lightness of the work and the relative coolness of the day.  
  
"Would you like some help?" Ireland asks, dropping to a crouch beside Jersey. Closer to, she can see that Jersey's arms are trembling slightly, that the skin between her eyebrows is pinched, betraying some strain that is not evident in her voice. "I can –"  
  
"No," Jersey says – snaps, jagged and abrupt – her fingers stiffening and sinking further into the soil. She takes a long, slow breath, and her voice is gentler as she repeats, "No, thank you. You're my guest, I can't put you to work. You're supposed to be relaxing."  
  
Her long blonde hair does not shine when it catches the sun anymore, and the privations of her occupation have robbed her skin of all its colour, leaving it almost translucent in its paleness, but her gaze has lost none of it's old intensity and determination. It seems that all of the changes that Ireland had noticed and tried hard to ignore really are only on the surface, and as she recognises that, the smile which has been reluctant to form since she arrived curls her lips easily; without thought.  
  
"All right," Ireland says, wrapping her hand briefly around Jersey's thin wrist. The bones feel brittle, hollow as a bird's, but there's strength there, nevertheless; coiled tight and buried deep like a seed waiting to germinate. "How about I make us both a cup of tea, instead?"  
  
"Oh, I've no problem with guests doing that."  
  
Jersey's laughter was completely unchanged, as well.


End file.
